A Study In Partnership
by Tris Holmes
Summary: Mycroft is sending Sherlock into hiding . . . but he needs a babysitter.
1. Chapter 1

**Hi! I've got to give a quick disclaimer, and then the story will start: I hereby formally declare that anything you recognize probably isn't mine, and I obviously don't own ****_Sherlock._**

**Oh! Also, my mother generously donated the title of the story.**

Well, as it often does, the story started with my little brother.

Most of his silly cases don't intersect with my minor position in the government (mostly because he has unwarranted distain for anything to do with me or politics), but when they do, it can lead to rather compromising situations.

In what I'm sure he considered a brilliant hunt after a few corrupt politicians' amateur assassins, my brother uncovered an agent in the middle of a similar investigation . . .

_"__So, why would such an unimportant pawn be paid so well by these inexperienced idiots who can obviously barely afford their own bills? . . . _Oh_, I see! They're not the ones paying you!"_

. . . causing them both to have to go into hiding.

_Sigh._

Sadly, when it does not suit him, my brother chooses not to understand the concept of _"in hiding"._ I, knowing of this unfortunate trait, decided to hire a caretaker of sorts. Also knowing that it would be a difficult search, I began, after depositing my little brother into a flat with an absurdly tolerant old woman named Mrs. Hudson, and informing them both that he was a newlywed whose partner would show up in a day or so, to look for someone suitable to marry my little brother.

Beginning the search was difficult. I needed to single out someone who would fascinate my brother and would be fascinated by him, but not be scared of him; someone who could control him without using drugs or physical force.

The problem with this was that in the past the only people who had fascinated my brother for more than few minutes at a time were _severely_ mentally ill serial killers, and I couldn't very well spring someone dangerous from a prison or hospital and put them in a flat in the middle of London with an unsuspecting old woman and my brother; it might cause a scandal. No. I would have to find someone subtle who had slipped through the wide cracks of law and society and could at least pretend to be normal enough to not kill anyone for a few months.

The logical first step was to go through the city's supply of mental health patients, weeding out the dangerous, romantically involved, inappropriately aged, and uninteresting ones (Anthea and I also managed to cross out a great fraction of them by acknowledging that my brother would only worsen the case of a person suffering from depression). Down to a thousand or so candidates, we next threw out anyone who obviously couldn't stand living with my brother, no matter how much they were paid. Carefully looking through the records of the thirteen left, I chose three (two women and one man), who I then had . . . appointments with, in various abandoned structures.

One of the women was far too willing to accept the bribe to be anything but boringly greedy, and the other got very blubbery very quickly. I gave up hope on them immediately.

The third candidate, though . . . He was perfect for my little brother. Unfortunately, he didn't accept the job (something about not being willing to sell his freedom), so I had to resort to somewhat more questionably effective measures.

I arranged for the two to meet while my little brother was observing people in the park, the man "luckily" sitting next to him on his chosen bench. The two then engaged in a conversation which ended up sparking the candidate's interest, evidenced by the fact that during our next meeting he accepted my offer, though he still (confusingly) didn't take the money.

I drove him back to his flat to get his belongings (this took half an hour), and then introduced him to Mrs. Hudson.

"This is John Watson; he's Sherlock's husband. Oh, and by-the-by, my brother has a few thumbs in the fridge that you should watch out for. Farewell!"


	2. The Game is Afoot!

**Hello, dearies. I've decided to continue this story (previously, it was a one-shot), so I'd like to thank all who reviewed, favorited, and followed. This is a rather short chapter (more is coming soon, though). Speaking of chapter lengths, about how long do you, my audience, prefer updates? Please review or PM me about it, please.**

**Disclaimer: Anything you recognize probably isn't mine.**

Chapter 1:

Mycroft is being silly. I don't need a babysitter, and I definitely don't need to be under house arrest.

My eyes slid slowly open and to the left, finding The Man reading the newspaper. Not one of Mycroft's lackeys, and too plain to have caught his attention through political or legal means, which suggests that Mycroft searched for him. I narrowed my eyes at The Man through the paper. Apparently, I'm going to be trapped here for at least three weeks.

"John?" Mrs. Hudson. She likes The Man (John, I suppose; not an alias- he responded too quickly). She brought biscuits for him. They're assorted, which means that he didn't specify a type. Habitually polite. Why would Mycroft choose him? "What do you like in your tea?"

He rested the paper on his knees, smiling at Mrs. Hudson. "Milk, please. Thank you." Noticing I was watching him, his smile grew tense. "Hello, Sherlock."

"Hello, John." He looked shocked for a moment, then relaxed. How dull.

He cleared his throat, glancing toward where Mrs. Hudson was whistling in the kitchen. "I suppose you know all about what's happening?"

My eyebrow raised. "My brother is being mean because I didn't go to last Christmas at Mummy's house, so he's giving me a babysitter."

His brow furrowed. "What - ? Never mind. You don't know anything else?"

I huffed a short sigh. "Fine. While my brother _is_ punishing me, I suppose it also has something to do with the political leader I angered. He thinks I need someone to keep me in the house, which _would_ be true, of course, if you, or anyone, were capable of doing so."

John looked ready to argue. "You think I can't keep you here?"

I smiled at him, smug. "Oh, I_ know_ you can't."

He stares at me for a few moments, then looks away, thinking. "Do you like games?"

_Is he trying to trick me? _"Only fun ones."

"So let's play a game. If I keep you here for, say, a week, I win, and if you get out, you win." He smiles, satisfied with his plan.

I narrow my eyes at him. "What do I get if I win?"

A hitch in his master plan. His smile fades. "Well, what do you want?"

"Hmmm . . . How about . . . a favor?"

John looks wary. _Good for him._ "What sort of favor?"

In truth, I wasn't sure yet. He wouldn't allow anything against his agreement with Mycroft, but he might be useful in some sort of behavioral experiment.

"Nothing like you're thinking. And you, of course, get a favor from me if _you_ win." That caught his attention. "We have a deal?"

"We have a deal."


	3. The First Night

**I'm really, really sorry that this took so long. I think now that school's started again I'll update, say, every Monday, but I'm habitually irresponsible, so please hold me to that. Thanks for reading! As always, anything you recognize is probably not original.**

"Well, I suppose I'd better go up to bed now?" After making that deal with Sherlock, I was quite tired of company; especially after realizing that making that deal with Sherlock would only make my job harder. Oh, well! At least I'm not being paid.

Mrs. Hudson was quick to respond. "Oh! Of course, dear. Sherlock, love, show him to your room, please." Returning her attention to me, she smiled warmly. "If you need anything, don't hesitate to ask."

Oh. One room. Right. We're married, and all, so . . . one room.

Glancing at Sherlock, still curled up and glaring in his chair, I smiled as politely as I could muster and gestured toward the door. "Sherlock, _love_?"

He scowled. His tall frame stretched quickly into a standing position, and he swept past me, briefly acknowledging Mrs. Hudson before running upstairs. After hurriedly saying, "Good night, Mrs. Hudson," I limped after him.

Halfway up the stairs, I heard, "I know you're married, but be quiet up there, dears!" What did that mea-? Oh. Well she had nothing to worry about on that account, I mused, face flushing brightly.

Waiting at the top of the stairs, Sherlock shot me a curious look, the first almost-friendly look I'd gotten since I met him. "Do you think your limp is psychosomatic? You forget about it sometimes, but not completely. I suppose your therapist thinks it is, but do _you_ think there's any substance to it?"

Sputtering, I tried to think of a reply. "I don' think it really matters much, does it? If it is all in my head, then it'll be difficult to get past, and even then I may have relapses, and if it's not . . . Well. It's not."

Humming a bit, Sherlock didn't say anything for a few seconds. "I wonder . . ." Tilting his head thoughtfully, he stood back for me to pass through a doorway.

Inside, some tasteful furniture sat in useful places around the room, pristine and untouched. I looked at my new bedmate questioningly. Judging on the swift view I got of his living room, Sherlock was not the neatest of men. He shrugged. "I don't sleep much. Mycroft designed it, and I haven't gotten around to messing it up yet." That explained that bit.

Remembering our "game" and ignoring the warning lights against unusual behavior, I pulled Sherlock toward the bed. "Well, you're sleeping tonight, sir. Can't have you sneaking out while I'm asleep."

"And how is being in the same room as you going to keep me from leaving?" He lifted his eyebrows tauntingly.

I thought quickly. "Do you have any rope?"

He almost smiled. "You're not nearly as trapped by social convention as I thought." I frowned a little at that, but he continued. "You may find some of the items in the dresser to your left useful to your plan. Second drawer from the top."

Wondering what he meant, I slid the drawer out a little, expecting rope, or maybe even some sort of hosiery. I found some very inappropriate items staring back at me. Slamming it shut, I whipped my head around to stare at him.

"I completely understand your alarm, but I assure you, that was not my doing. My brother thinks that once we start 'getting along,' we may have use of them. I thought you may find the furry black handcuffs to be of some use."

Reopening the drawing, I quickly located the handcuffs and pulled them out. "Which side are you sleeping on?"

Sherlock smiled at me, looking amused. "You really are much more exciting than I thought you were. I prefer the left." He held out his right hand. I flushed, shackling his right hand to my left. Then we were on the bed and the lights were off.

"You should know I'm quite the lock picker." This was going to be a long night.


	4. Spades

**I know my being late is getting old, but I'm trying to fix it, so bear with me, please. Thanks for reading! As always, anything you recognize is probably not original.**

"Are you awake yet?" No answer. Leaning back against the headboard, I let out another long groan.

I was bored. Really bored.

Being handcuffed to a sleeping John is much less exciting than being handcuffed to an awake John, and I had only managed to sleep for a few hours before waking up.

_Could pick the lock. _Peering at the handcuffs, I tried to decide if I really wanted to prolong the game so much that I'd sit here for another few hours.

"Why the _hell_ are you awake? It's three o'clock in the morning."

My eyes snapped up to meet the back of John's head.

"How long have you been awake?" I furrowed my brows at his hair.

He turned his head to glare at me. There were dark circles under his eyes. "Fourteen sighs ago."

"Oh." I considered this for a moment. "I'm bored."

Leaning his head back onto his pillow, John sighed exasperatedly. "What do you want _me_ to do about that?"

"Well, you could unlock the handcuffs." I bared my teeth at him hopefully.

"Can't you unlock them yourself, _Brilliant Locksmith_?"

"I thought you'd be angry if I did that. I was being _considerate_," I lied.

John rolled his eyes at me. "Sure, like the spider _considerately_ allows the fly time to land in its web before trapping and killing it."

"Precisely."

He opened his eyes and stared at me for a moment. Then he inched his legs over the side of the bed, unlocked our handcuffs, and looked regretfully back at his pillow. "Well, it's not like I'll be getting any more sleep anyway."

I eagerly hopped off the bed the moment I was free. John watched me warily. "So, Sherlock, what do you like to do for fun?"

"Work."

"What sort of work?"

"I solve mysteries. I'm a consulting detective."

He looked confused. _Good._ I opened my mouth to explain, smirking.

"I'm not even going to ask," he muttered. My jaw shut with a click. "So, what; do you want to play _Clue_?"

I think my face morphed into a rather comical mask of shock and disgust, because John doubled over, gasping for air.

221BBakerStreet

A small box slammed down in front of me. Squatting on the couch where John had placed me, I looked quizzically up at the man as he settled down across from me.

He met my gaze unapologetically. "What? You like games."

I scoffed. "I enjoy _behavioral experiments_, thank you very much."

"Right, right." He shook his head. "Well, Spades is twenty percent luck, twenty percent strategy, and sixty percent observation. Pretend it's an experiment. Collect data. Use different strategies. _Enjoy_ yourself."

Resigning myself to my fate, I considered the cards that John had taken out of the box to shuffle. "How do you play?"

221BBakerStreet

Seventeen hours later, John grinned broadly at the cards on the table. "Wow. That was the longest game I've ever played!"

My brows had been knitted together for the last three hands. His statement at the beginning - about luck, strategy, and observation - had been true, which should have meant that I would excel at the game. But somehow, we had been almost evenly matched, staying at roughly the same score during the entire game. How had he . . . ?

"Okay. I accept that you are incapable of getting a full night's sleep, but I'm too tired to fix that right now, so I'm going to let you borrow my computer, and you are going to play games and be _quiet_ while I try to sleep. Do you understand?"

I nodded, still in shock about my failure. John looked at me strangely. "What's wrong?"

"I believe I'm in shock."

He scoffed and rolled his eyes. "Need tea? Shock blanket?"

Glaring at John, I huffed a sigh. "Very humorous. Did you say 'computer'?"

**Author's Note: For those of you that haven't played Spades, it's a card game with a lot of rounds. In each round you can earn a varying number of points, usually around 20 or 30 (or, if you lose a round, -20 or -30). The way I play, the game ends when you get to 500 points.**

**For those of you that have played Spades, yes, I know it's a four player game. Please forgive me for my inaccuracy.**


	5. Chapter 5

**I give up. I'll update when I update. Please don't hate me!**

**Anything you recognize probably isn't mine.**

I give up. I give up! I can't go through another day of this.

_It's only been one day._

So what? I'm going deaf! It's not worth it.

_You'd lose the bet. Sherlock would get a favor from you. Who knows what he'd ask of you?_

Hmm. He can't ask me for anything if I kill him.

_That would be against-_

" - your Hippocratic Oath." The screeching of the horse hair bow against the strings of his torturous instrument suddenly stopped.

_Damn. He's in my head._

My eardrums were still ringing when I reminded him, "I told you not to do that."

Sherlock looked over his shoulder at me, violin still in position on his other. "Do what?"

_How innocent._

"You know _what_, Sherlock."

He almost smiled fondly at me, before his expression morphed into a hard smirk. "Just like the rest of them," he muttered under his breath.

I frowned. _What did he mean by that?_ "Sorry?"

"Nothing," he said quickly, carefully setting down his violin. "So, what distraction have you planned today?" He paused for a moment. "No cards. I dislike them."

I chuckled. "You're just a terrible loser."

"Not necessarily a weakness."

"Of course not."

He furrowed his brows at me. I raised my own. "What?"

"Don't patronize me." My lips curved up of their own accord while his formed a scowl.

I cleared my throat. "Anyway, I'm not sure what to do. How do you feel about cooking? We could make cupcakes. Or cake." A thought struck me, and I looked up at him questioningly. "Come to think of it, I don't think you've eaten anything since I got here."

Still frowning at me, he snapped, "That's not true. When you first came here, I had a biscuit, and I had a cup of tea with milk yesterday. Also, cupcakes and cakes fall into the category of baking, not cooking."

"Baking is a category of cooking."

"Be more specific."

While I glared at him, I thought about the implications of what he was saying. Eating that much on a regular basis can't be healthy. Casually, my eyes swept over his body. He's isn't as thin as his diet should make him . . . Is it possible his eating habits fluctuate? That's definitely not healthy, especially for his heart . . .

"I'm not anorexic."

Damn. He caught me.

I tried for innocence. "Are you not?"

"No."

"How do_you_ explain your habits?"

"I don't eat on cases. It slows my thinking. Otherwise, I have a generally healthy diet."

"Cases?" I was confused. "Oh! You said you were a detective. Still not healthy, but . . ." I tilted my head thoughtfully and raised my eyebrows quizzically. "How can you be on a case? We're stuck here."

"Firstly, it's _consulting. Consulting_ detective. And I am on case. Well, more like I'm doing an experiment." He seemed to hesitate. "Before you ask, no, I won't tell you what it is, and, no, it shouldn't hurt you."

My head whipped up. "'Shouldn't'?"

He looked at me as if I was being unreasonable. "Yes, John; it _shouldn't_ hurt you."

My voice raised a pitch or two. "I don't want 'shouldn't'. I want _'__won't'_."

"Alright. It _probably won't_ hurt you." He was laughing at me.

I scoffed and settled back down. "You're just trying to make me nervous."

He grinned at me, all of his teeth shining brilliantly. "Bit, yeah."

Attempting a serious air, I straightened my back and looked firmly at Sherlock. "You're not going to distract me. You haven't eaten anything real for days."

"_One_ day," he muttered. I ignored him.

"So we're going to make something to eat that has actual nutritional value."

"I just told you I don't eat on cases."

"You can't prove you're on case if you won't tell me what it's about. Besides, I don't care. It's bad for you to stop eating entirely. Do you like anything in particular?"

He let out a long-suffering sigh. "Pasta."

"Pasta? How about spaghetti?"

"Fine."

"Fine." With a grunt, I lifted myself from the armchair and descended the stairs. "Mrs. Hudson?"

She appeared in a doorway, as if expecting my call, and smiled warmly at me. "Yes, John, dear?"

I couldn't help smiling back at her. "Sherlock and I were hoping –"

Faintly, we heard, "_John_ was hoping!" My grin stretched wider and Ms. Hudson chuckled.

"Anyway, we were hoping that you'd be willing to share some cooking materials, if you have them."

"Of course, dear." She started leading me toward the kitchen. "What do you need?"

"Umm . . . Dry pasta, I think, and tomatoes . . ."

Mrs. Hudson stopped at the counter and looked at me. "I take it you don't know exactly what you need."

I chuckled, blushing. "You caught me."

She smiled kindly. "I thought so. So, what are you making?"

"Spaghetti with tomato sauce?"

Mrs. Hudson started to bustle around the kitchen, grabbing odd items and settling them into a basket, finally stopping after grabbing a recipe book from a shelf and laying it open on top of the pile. "That should be everything you need, dear. The recipe is one of my late husband's, so it's fairly simple, but if you have any questions, don't hesitate to ask."

Taking the basket, I thanked her and headed back up the stairs. I found Sherlock exactly where I left him, standing in the center of the room and staring at me. I raised one eyebrow. "Impressed by my shapely figure?"

He didn't answer, but only shifted his eyes to my chair. As I stepped past him, I followed his eyes. There was nothing there but the chair . . . and my cane . . . My eyes widened as that sunk in, and I tripped.

Sherlock caught my elbow and the bottom of the basket, stabilizing me. His smile, oddly sincere (for him), sparkled.

"Definitely psychosomatic."


End file.
